


Baker Street Shorts

by Jenny_Starseed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fem!mycroft, Ficlets, Genderswap, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, rare pairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:51:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenny_Starseed/pseuds/Jenny_Starseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous ficlets written for various prompts on the BBC Sherlock kink meme. A mixed bag of humour, vignettes, rare pairs and the odd fic that defies defintion.  All fics are under 500 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Sherlock eats Smarties Systematically for Science (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self explanatory title above.

"Sherlock, why are there red smarties everywhere?”

“You eat the red ones last, of course. “

“Of course. That explains everything except why they’re in neat little rows of ten. How many boxes have you had?”

“80 boxes. 10 for each colour. I’m doing a probability study to see if the colours are evenly distributed in each box.”

“And how is that information useful?”

“Useful! How BORING. I’m bored. BORED! BORED! BORED! BORED! If I want to systematically eat through 80 packets of chocolate to alleviate this stone crushing boredom, I might as well satisfy my craving for sugar, chocolate and artificial colour. Systematically. Starting with brown and ending with Red. Reversing the rainbow. Brown, purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink and red.”

“And why does red end up last? You could end it in pink and would still be the rainbow.”

“Blasphemy! No, we always end in red.”

“We do?”

“Yes, the advert says eat the red ones last. Do I really need to explain this further?”

“You do understand that that is completely nutters. And who’d knew that those bloody adverts dictated your sweets eating world view.”

“Shut up, John. I don’t ask you about your bizarre fascination with marmalade and marmite on toast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I filled this at 3am in 20 minutes. This was the cracky result.


	2. My-Croft (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft hated nick-names.

“It’s My-Croft. MY-CROFT! Two syllables. It’s not Mike. Who is Mike? Do you really think my mother and father blessed me with such an ordinary name?”

“Sir, I think the point has been made,” soothed Anthea.

“No, it has not!” exclaimed Mycroft, with a hint of petulance. “If it has, no one would be calling me Mike.”

“Yeah, but it’s not M-I-K-E, like Michael,” explained the man behind the counter. “But M-Y-C, like N-Y-C, like the city! But not, it’s your first name without the –roft.”

“No, you stupid bugger,” Mycroft slowly began, his voice rising with anger. “It is not like N-Y-C at all. Do you think associating your ridiculous nickname with a world class city negates the utter idiocy of calling a grown man MYC?”

“Sir, we have a full schedule today,” reminded Anthea. “We should just pick up the dry cleaning and go. I’m sure Mr. Amos didn’t mean any offense. He’s just being friendly.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and counted to ten before sighing. “Alright. Mr. Amos, you can call me Mr. Holmes from now on. I’m sure that won’t be too hard for you to remember, my surname is printed on every receipt.”

“No problem, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Amos said with a giant grin. He gave Anthea the suit while Mycroft made payment.

They were almost out the door when Mr. Amos yelled, “Come back again, Myc!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of these characters are mine. Unbeta-ed and Unbrit-picked.


	3. Myra in the Morning Light (Fem!Mycroft/Lestrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myra Holmes looked very human and ordinary in the morning light.

Lestrade woke to the soft sounds of Myra snoring. It was disorienting at first to wake in another’s bed, it had been a long time since he’s done this. He turned over to take in the image of her. Her soft brown hair was carelessly draping over her face, her face relaxed and her mouth open. She looked very human and ordinary in the soft morning light. The make-up was roughly scrubbed off and she looked younger but more tired and weary without it.

It was jarring to realize how physically ordinary Myra was. For a woman in her early forties, she looked good for her age, but she still showed the tell-tale signs of aging. Her face had age spots and freckles, there were light lines around her mouth and her chest was sparsely freckled. The comforter enveloped her lovingly, her mild curves and points of pudginess Lestrade knew every woman had and judged themselves too harshly on. Myra reminded him of his former wife after she had their child. She was quietly lovely in all her flaws and vulnerability, but embodied absolute composure and a sure-handedness that was distinctly womanly.

He would never tell Myra any of this. She was the Government after all and her cultivated grace and steely nerve made her a woman you wouldn’t want to cross under any circumstances. It also gave her a certain hollow brittleness when she was stressed, he aimed to do what he could for her. It was so he could see more of the lovely expressions she made while she slept show up on her face while she was awake. It was why he got out of bed, pulled on a terrycloth dressing gown and made tea and breakfast for her. She had a long day ahead of her, the Government never sleeps during the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Fem!Mycroft looks like a Frankenstein concept. But I loved the few Fem!Mycroft fics that existed and I wanted more. So I wrote one of my own.
> 
> None of these characters are mine. Unbeta-ed and Unbrit-picked.


	4. A Night Off (John/Sarah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She shouldn’t feel like a third wheel in her own relationship. That was why John Watson was sleeping on the couch after a row with Sherlock. A missing scene from The Great Game.

Sarah opened the door to find John standing at her door. He looked annoyed and apologetic at the same time. Sarah could only conclude it had something to do with his mad flat mate.

“Hello Sarah,” John nervously began. “I know it’s a bit early in our relationship, but uh, mind if I stay over? I had a row with Sherlock.”

Sarah sighed and let John in. Sometimes she thought John and Sherlock were akin to an old married couple, despite only living together for three months. She took his jacket and offered him some tea and he accepted. He explained the row, the smiley face shot into the wall and the random human heads in the refrigerator. It seemed that Sherlock was all John ever talked about, she was beginning to feel like the third wheel in her own relationship. So after dinner, when he made a move to kiss her in the awkward mating dance of asking (without words) if...you know...if he could sleep with her, she smiled thinly.

“John, I think it’s a bit soon for that. We’ve only had four dates and I feel that I hardly know you,” Sarah explained in a kind voice, though she was feeling anything but kind.

She tossed a blanket to John, strongly hinting that he would be sleeping on the couch. Sarah gave him credit for being a gentleman about it, accepting the blanket and the spare toothbrush with an embarrassed smile and an apology.


	5. Sleep and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was not used to Sherlock’s severe work schedule while working on a case.

Sherlock half dragged John up the seventeen steps, with John’s arm slung around Sherlock’s back, half asleep and exhausted. After a tricky fumble with his keys, Sherlock opened the door and continued to half carry and half drag John to Sherlock’s own bedroom. Sherlock would settle on sleeping on the sofa, it was the least he could do for John. He laid John upon his bed, carefully taking off his shoes and jacket and pulled up the comforter up against John’s chin. John looked absolutely exhausted.

They had just finished a case that involved the murder of homeless men that once served in the army, which motivated John to take up the same hours as Sherlock while working on a case. That meant living on caffeine and stimulants while only having a couple of hours of sleep a night, eating minimal (or in John’s case, greasy take-away) food that was rarely healthy or satisfying and running on adrenaline for twelve hours at a time. Sherlock was used to working like this, John was not. John never complained, he took a steely determined attitude that showed itself by hiding all his exhaustion.

So Sherlock could almost be forgiven for overlooking the fact that John was worse for wear after a seven hour stake out in a park on a cold late November night. Not to mention the clumsy fist fight with the murderer (a civil servant with access to veteran files who had an irrational active grudge against soldiers of all types) did not help matters. He came out of the fight with a few bruises but it was nothing that needed immediate medical attention.

Sherlock watched John sleep for a moment, wondering what he could do help him recover. Sherlock usually recovered after cases with two days of sleeping, Chinese take-away and herbal tea. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to take care of John; he never felt the need to take care of anybody’s personal needs before. But then again, he never had a partner that was as dedicated as John and Sherlock felt he should return the favour in kind. He started by turning off all the phones and checked to see if the cupboard was stocked with John’s favourite tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for MWM prompt #7: Sleep. My very first attempt at hurt/comfort, I don’t know if the effort was successful. A little more comfort than hurt. I almost didn’t post this. Experienced Watson whimpers, let me know what you think.


	6. Persian Slippers (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was pretty sure he never smoked shag tobacco stored in a Persian slipper, it doesn’t stop him remembering doing so 100 years ago.

Sherlock opened the door to find Mrs. Hudson standing at there with a small cardboard box of miscellaneous items.

“Sherlock, could you be a dear and drop this box off at a local donations box?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “It’s just useless things I’ve found around my flat. Feel free to look through it if you want anything interesting. I have some interesting birth control literature from the 1970s if that would interest you.”

He spotted a pair of Persian slippers on top of the box. For reasons he could not fathom, the sight of the slippers motivated him to take the box.

“Not a problem, Mrs. Hudson,” replied Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson thanked Sherlock and left.

He sat the box down on the kitchen table, taking out the Persian slippers. They had a potent smell to them; a sharp, pungently bitter and a slightly tart smell. It took a moment before he remembered that he knew this smell from his childhood. His grand uncle used to smoke shag tobacco in their front room. Sherlock used to sit by his feet, watching the smoke come out of his thinly hand-rolled cigarettes.

Out of a feeling of sentiment, he took out the slippers and moved toward the disused fireplace, sitting on the arm chair, examining the slippers in his hand. He suddenly has an image in his head of an older version of himself, sitting by the fireplace with a Persian slipper. His older self took the slipper from the mantelpiece and tipped it over to sprinkle a black substance onto some rolling papers to roll a cigarette, in the same manner that he saw his grand uncle do as a child.

Sherlock knew that he himself had never smoked hand-rolled shag tobacco. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel it was an innately familiar ritual that lingered in his fingers.

He imagined himself smoking and enjoying it, taking satisfaction in the way the strong smell woke his senses while the strong nicotine hummed in his veins. Watson—No, John, would be sitting opposite of him, smoking a similarly strong cigarette, but not as pungent as Sherlock’s.

He wondered if he could find shag tobacco, he would have to go to a speciality store for it. He wondered if he could still roll the cigarette expertly without ever having done so. He quickly dismissed the idea. John was a doctor, he would never smoke and there would be a row if Sherlock ever brought home shag tobacco and started smoking it, never mind storing it in such an odd place such as the toe of a Persian slipper.

But still, he kept one of the slippers on the mantelpiece. When John later asked why there was a ruddy old slipper on the mantelpiece, Sherlock could give no other explanation other than it belonged there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled for a asking for BBC Sherlock characters remembering a past life of a previous incarnation of a Sherlock Holmes Universe. I love writing and reading fics where BBC Sherlock intersects with ACD Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Chip and Pin Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle between John Watson and the chip and pin machine continues.

“It’s clear, we’re here, get used to it,” Sherlock monotonously read out the large sign in front of him.

“I’d rather die first!” exclaimed John.

It was 6pm at the local Tesco’s and all John wanted was his tinned beans, red peppers, bread and cream for his tea. Why there were only three cashiers open? All had long queues with men, women and many whining and crying children peppered along the queues. The rest of the childless population of London that didn’t have a hundred pounds worth of food to pay for were queuing at the chip and pin machines. He looked up at the insipidly cheery poster above the cashiers, damning technology for its inhumane treatment on poor souls like John Watson. He was beginning to sound like his father when the automatic bank teller machines appeared twenty years ago.

John could only rub his eyes in frustration when Sherlock took his hamper and approached one of the chip and pin machines. He scanned the tin of beans, cream and bread without any fuss. The veg were always such an ordeal for John with the chip and pin machine, so he could only look on in wonder as Sherlock made a few choice taps on the menu screen and the red peppers scanned without any problems. With that, Sherlock paid for the food with his bank card and he was finished. Sherlock waited for John on the other side of the shop with a smug smile on his face. John could only gape while he quickly walked over to Sherlock, grabbing the groceries in hand.

“How did you do that?” exclaimed John. “No! More importantly, why can’t you do the shopping? The chip and pin machines obviously like you better.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” answered Sherlock smugly. “I’ve adapted to the technology, you haven’t. Who am I to deprive you of the repeated experience of learning how to work the chip and pin machine? After all, it’s clear that they’re here to stay and you might as well get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a dialogue prompt on bbc kink meme:
> 
> It’s clear, we’re here, get used to it
> 
> I’d rather die first


	8. Quiet Sunday (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John quiets the noise in Sherlock’s mind with a bit of tea and telly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for this prompt: Sherlock has always hated the quiet times because there's nothing to drown out the voices in his head that tell him he's a worthless freak that everyone hates. But John makes everything quiet, including the voices, without even knowing they're there.
> 
> None of these characters are mine. Unbeta-ed and Unbrit-picked.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, watching endless amounts of bad telly. Big Brother was on the telly again and he knew how much John hated the show. He fell asleep sometime in the middle of the night and woke up to a very quiet flat. It was early Sunday morning and the street was unusually quiet. He had nothing to do lie there quietly and think. Sherlock often tried to direct his mind to more constructive subjects. He was too sleepy to be properly bored, so his mind drifted. He wondered quietly if he disappeared through the sofa and below the floors, would he be missed? He often had enough hateful looks directed at him that suggested that no, they wouldn’t miss him. They might be very relieved that he was suddenly gone, sunken out of the world like lost change down a sewer grate.

He hated when his mind drifted to such useless rubbish thoughts. It kept a very careful facade of arrogance and indifference in an attempt to remake himself into a proper man, not a broken computer that insisted on running particular programs against his will. A constant program that checked and rechecked all his social interactions for the week, checking for inaccuracies and imperfections, it gave him a feeling of being a charlatan in his own skin. It wasn’t anything Sherlock could properly explain. Except the mimickery of emotions and mannerisms to keep people comfortable with him always left him exhausted and vulnerable to thoughts of “what is the point? People still don’t like me.”

It wasn’t that Sherlock particularly cared about keeping the esteem of others, but he disliked the feeling that he was not connecting with people in the way that he should. It alienated people from him when he thought it was very stupid that it did. The not-goods and what-did-you-just-say expressions from people around him were making him feel like a human alien among the population at large. His computer program stopped for a moment. Did he just refer to his his peers, friends and family as the population at large? Not good. Often accompanied by whispers of “freak.” Not good at all.

He was put out of his hideous self-pitying thought loop when John sat next to Sherlock, asking him to move over to he could sit properly on the sofa.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”

Tea? Why?

“Why?”

John gave him an idiotic smile. “Because, it’s tea! It makes everyone feel a bit human in the morning.”

John gave Sherlock a pat on the ankle and left the tea on the table in front of Sherlock. “Alright, I understand you’re in one of your moods again. But my mum used to cure my blacker moods with tea, just a bit of comfort in a cup she used to say. And it’s alright, everyone feels out of sorts and rubbish some days and there’s not a house in Britain without tea for good reason.”

“You really think that? That is very so typical; it’s almost a rubbish stereotype.”

“Yeah, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Always so quick to point out the obvious without acknowledging I’m partially right. Tea really does solve everything, at least for this Brit it does.”

John said this with such affection that Sherlock couldn’t help but feel accepted and...normal. John got up to turn on the telly, while Sherlock quietly drank his tea. There was a BBC documentary on the invention of the telegraph. The Victorian internet they called it. Fascinating. Sherlock sat up and he found himself becoming interested and absorbed in the documentary, sitting comfortably on the sofa with John’s hand in his. It was a perfectly ordinary thing to do with a good friend, feeling comfortable and a part of the general population again. His thoughts finally stopped.


	9. Possessive Boyfriends (John/Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally has figured something out about John Watson. (dialogue fic)

"Oh God. You're going to one of those crazy possesive boyfriends, aren't you? I've read about those."

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes. And I thought Sherlock would be the creepy boyfriend type.”

“I have no idea where that came from, Sally. It could be your drink speaking.”

“I’ve been watching you, John. The whole time you’re talking about that freak, you have that intense passionate look that has a touch of mania that screams ‘MINE’ whenever you talk about him a prolonged time.”

“Why does everyone think we’re shagging?”

“I never said you were shagging Sherlock Holmes. I’m just sayin’, you’re the possessive type. Lestrade suspects you know. The cabbie. I didn’t believe it at first, but now I see it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Me neither.”

*pause*

“Do you really think...?”

“I don’t really want to go there. Whatever happens between you two will be epic. And that’s not the drink talking.”


	10. Disguises (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a selection of women's clothing in his closet. He keeps this a secret for a good reason.
> 
> Written as a 100 word drabble for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=96452902#t96452902

In Sherlock’s collection of disguises, he owns a select few pieces of women’s clothing because passing off as women is the one disguise he cannot perfect. His height, voice and his knobby knees are physical attributes he cannot change easily. He would never try to pass for a young woman; that would be courting failure on a humiliating level. He often tries to disguise himself as an elderly woman with a bit of stoop. He keeps this a secret because people are so naturally tiresome when they make stupid insinuations and assumptions about him being “kinky,” whatever that means.

**Author's Note:**

> None of these characters are mine. Unbeta-ed and Unbrit-picked.


End file.
